“You shouldn’t make jokes like that,” Irene said.

“So if, say, Jan Harwood had been depressed of late, you might not have noticed,” Duckworth said between forkfuls.

“Only one depressed in that office is Leanne,” he said. “Has been ever since she showed up five years ago.”

“But not Ms. Harwood?”

“If anything,” Bertram said, suddenly very thoughtful, “I’d say she was more excited.”

“Excited?”

“Well, maybe that’s the wrong word. Agitated? That’s not right, either. But acting like something was just around the corner.”

Duckworth set down his fork and rested the plate on the broad arm of the wicker chair. He noticed that the ice cream was melting, and if he didn’t deal with it soon, it would start dribbling over the edge of the plate.

“What was just around the corner?”

“Beats me. But when she came to me, asking about taking a day off here and there, or maybe just half a day, there was something-I don’t know how to describe it-like she was looking forward to something, expecting something.”

Irene said, “Ernie is very good at reading people. You go into people’s homes, fixing their furnaces and air conditioners, you get to know what people are really like.”

Duckworth smiled at her, as though he actually appreciated the contribution.

“How much time had she taken off lately?” Duckworth asked.

“Let me think… Leanne-the other girl at the-”

“They don’t call them girls anymore, Ernie,” Irene said. “They’re women. And you got some ice cream about to make a break for it there.”

Duckworth used his fork to move the melting ice cream away from the edge, then mashed another forkful of pie into it and popped it into his mouth.

Anyway,” Ernie said, “Leanne might have an idea how many days. There was yesterday, and another day earlier in the week, and a couple the week before.”

Duckworth had taken out his notepad and was writing things down. When he was done, he looked up and said, “I want to go back to something you said a moment ago.”

“Yeah?”

“About Jan being excited. Tell me more about that.”

Ernie thought. “Maybe it was a bit like when women are getting ready for something. Like a trip, or having relatives in to visit.”

“But you wouldn’t have characterized her as suicidal at all?”

Irene put a hand to her breast. “Oh my. Is that what you think happened?”

“I’m just asking,” Duckworth said.

Ernie said, “I don’t think so. But who knows how people think, what they keep bottled up inside.”

Duckworth nodded. He finished off the last of the pie and ice cream in three more bites.

“Where did they go yesterday?” Ernie asked.

“Where did who go yesterday?” Duckworth asked.

“Jan and David. They went on some outing yesterday. Jan mentioned it before she left work on Thursday.”

“You sure you don’t mean their trip to Five Mountains today?”

He shook his head. “She said David was taking her somewhere Friday. It was all really mysterious, she said she couldn’t talk about it. I got the idea that maybe it was a surprise or something.”

Duckworth made another scribble on his pad, then put it into his jacket. He was about to thank Ernie for his time and Irene for the pie when a phone rang inside the house.

Irene jumped up and went inside.

When Duckworth rose out of his chair, Ernie did the same. “David must be beside himself,” Ernie said. “Wondering what’s happened to his wife.”

Duckworth nodded. “Of course.”

“I sure hope you find her soon,” he said.

Irene was at the door. “It’s Lyall,” she said.

Ernie shook his head. “What’s he want?”

“He hasn’t seen Leanne all day. Actually, not since yesterday.”

Duckworth felt a jolt. “Leanne Kowalski?”

Ernie went into the house and picked up the receiver sitting by the phone on the front hall table. Duckworth followed him in.

“Lyall?” Ernie listened a moment, then said, “Nope, I didn’t… Since when?… That’s a long time to be shopping, even for a woman. Did you hear about Jan? Police are here-”

“May I take that?” Duckworth said and took the phone away from Ernie. “Mr. Kowalski, this is Detective Barry Duckworth with the Promise Falls Police Department.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s this about your wife?”

“She’s not home.”

“When were you expecting her?”

“Hours ago. She went out to do some shopping. At least that’s what I think. That’s what she usually does on a Saturday. She was going to the mall and then she was going to do the groceries.”

“Your wife and Jan Harwood work together?”

“Yeah, at Ernie’s. Can you put him back on? I want to ask whether he called her in on an emergency or something.”

“He didn’t,” Duckworth said.

“What’s this about Jan? Her husband called here a while ago looking for her. What are you doing at Ernie’s place? Everything okay there?”

Duckworth had his notepad out again. “Mr. Kowalski, what’s your address?”

There was something I’d never been totally honest about with Jan.

It wasn’t that I lied to her. But there was something I’d done I’d never told her about. If she’d ever flat out asked about it, maybe then I would have lied. I think I might have had to. She’d have been too furious with me.

It wasn’t that I cheated on her. I’d never done anything like that, not even close. This had nothing to do with another woman.

One time, about a year ago, I drove by her house.

This would be the house she grew up in, her parents’ place, a nearly three-hour drive from Promise Falls. It was in the Pittsford neighborhood of southeast Rochester, on Lincoln Avenue. A long, narrow two-story. The white paint was peeling from the walls, and a couple of the black shutters-one on the first floor and one on the second-hung crookedly. The screening in the metal storm door was frayed, and there were chunks of brick missing from the chimney. But while the house needed some attention, it was far from derelict.

I had been driving back from Buffalo, where I’d gone to interview a city planner who felt that conventional ideas to slow residential traffic-speed bumps, four-way stops-didn’t do anything but anger drivers to the point of road rage, and thought roundabouts, traffic circles, and landscaped medians were a better way to go. It was on the way back that I decided to take 490 north off 90 and head into the Rochester neighborhood I knew to be the one where Jan grew up.

I think I knew, even before leaving for Buffalo, I was going to take this side trip.

It never would have been possible if we hadn’t had the leak behind the bathroom sink several days earlier.

Jan was at work and I had taken the day off as payback for several late-night city council meetings I’d recently covered-this was before we’d turned that beat over to Rajiv or Amal or whoever in Mumbai. I’d gone down to the unfinished side of our basement, where the furnace and hot water tank are, and noticed a steady drip of water coming down from between the studs. That was where the copper pipes turned north to feed the upstairs bathroom.

I did what I always did when I had a household emergency. I called Dad.

“Sounds like maybe you’ve got a pinhole leak in one of your pipes,” he said. “I’ll be right over.” He couldn’t disguise the joy and excitement in his voice.

He showed up half an hour later with his tools, including a small propane torch for welding.

“It’s going to be in the wall somewhere,” he said. “The trick is finding it.”

We thought we could hear a hissing sound behind the bathroom sink, about a foot up from the floor. It was a pedestal sink, so it was easy to get up close to the wall for a listen.

Dad pulled out a saw with a pointed end on the blade that would allow him to stab right into the drywall and start cutting.

“Dad,” I said, looking at the floral wallpaper and not looking forward to tearing it all up, “would it be worth going in from the other side?”